


Home is Where the Heart Is

by RascalJoy (DarkQuill)



Category: Batman (Comics), Red Robin (Comics), Robin (Comics)
Genre: Angst, At the same time, Batfamily bonding, Child Neglect, Christmas, Fluff, Gen, Tim's parents suck and everyone knows it but Tim, Touch Shy, touch starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-25
Updated: 2017-01-03
Packaged: 2018-09-12 01:08:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9049186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkQuill/pseuds/RascalJoy
Summary: In which Tim's lonely Christmas takes a turn for the better.  (Aka, the one in which Tim's first Christmas as Robin was setting up to be pretty quiet until a certain acrobat knocks on his door.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cross posted from Fanfiction.net.
> 
> Tried a little too hard to get this finished before Christmas. Whoops.
> 
> It turned out to be around 3000 words longer than I expected it to turn out, and about 5000 more than I originally planned. Oh well.
> 
> Expect the epilogue/chapter two hopefully within the next week.
> 
> Merry Christmas, y'all. Hope you enjoy :)

So far, Christmas morning had passed fairly uneventfully. Tim had woken up sometime around nine in the morning, convinced himself to leave the warm sanctuary of his covers, piled on some sweaters and a couple pairs of socks over his flannels, and cobbled together a breakfast of turkey sausages and scrambled eggs (in which only one piece of shell was found this time).

Then, after a brief debate as to whether it was really worth it to cross the front hall to the study and turn the heat on, Tim elected to tough it out in favor of treating himself to a mug of hot chocolate later in the evening.

But still. Three sweaters and two pairs of socks were no match against a frigid, empty house.

It really wasn’t that bad, Tim decided (convinced himself). Huddled in a blanket by the immaculately decorated Christmas tree, an open book in his hands, and a blanket of snow glittering invitingly outside the window could at the very least be considered peaceful.

He could almost pretend that his parents were still upstairs, and all he needed to do was wait just a few more minutes before it was time to unwrap the presents under the tree…

Well, that was under the assumption that there were presents under the tree. At the moment, there weren’t. His parents would have to be around to put them there in the first place. Which they weren’t.

But Tim was patient. He could wait till tomorrow. There really wasn’t anything he’d particularly wanted this Christmas anyway.

(Other than his own motorbike; but that was a Robin request, not a Tim Drake request.)

Despite their spotty track record, his parents almost always managed to at least be home for Christmas Day. Today was only the second time they hadn’t, and Tim honestly didn’t hold it against them.

They were busy. They tried. That’s all there was to it.

In fact, he’d almost come to enjoy the barren silence of this enormous house; had come to know every creak of wood, every stray puff of air, every dust bunny that managed to accumulate during the periods between housekeeper visits. Needless to say, Tim knew this house. Drew comfort from it. Knew what to expect at any given moment.

So when the doorbell rang, loud and brash through the echoey front hallway, he didn’t flinch. He _leapt_. Almost dove headfirst into the prickly lower branches of the Christmas tree, heart racing in his chest, before he comprehended what he was doing and forced himself to sit back down.

After an extended silence, Tim licked his dry lips nervously, shivering as he fingered the accidentally abandoned blanket on the floor. Maybe he’d imagined it…?

The doorbell rang again.

And…Tim had heard stories. He lived in Gotham, for crying out loud. Past that, he was _Robin_. After what happened to Barbara, there was an unspoken rule to never open the door without first knowing exactly who was waiting beyond it.

Tim hadn’t been expecting anyone.

It was Christmas morning.

Both those facts were enough to send the hairs on the back of his neck prickling in slight apprehension and a healthy helping of suspicion.

Because who has any business at the _Drake_ residence on _Christmas_?

Unless…

His parents came home early.

A flicker of childish hope fluttered in his chest, which he was quick to stifle. There was no reason to get excited. Last time he’d thought his parents had arrived early, he’d been met by a dumpy old lady handing out flyers to save the Yellow-Bellied Spotted Skunk. (A nearly extinct species on an island off the coast of Australia, she’d assured him. Needless to say, Tim closed the door pretty quick.)

A glance at the clock told him it was 11:10am. Not even within 24 hours of their estimated arrival time.

No. His parents always arrived precisely when they said they would, and not a moment sooner. Usually later, actually.

The doorbell rang again, loud and insistent.

Maybe…maybe this time…?

Tim eased to his feet, creeping carefully across the living room. He peeked out into the front hall, eyeing the ornate front door on the other side. A single shadow lay on the window frame, shifting from foot-to-foot on the mat.

 That…was not something his parents did. Or the housekeeper. Or anyone that ever came over, really.

Tim swallowed the bitter pill of disappointment, already turning to settle back in his spot on the floor before the accumulated warmth could seep from the wood.

But then, the shadow shifted, a face appearing as brilliant blue eyes attempted to squint through the one-way glass next to the door.

Despite himself, Tim’s heart stuttered in his chest. Because none other than Dick Grayson was standing on the porch. _Dick Grayson_ was standing on his _porch_.

Before he could fully process the thought, his feet were moving, fingers turning the lock and practically _yanking_ the door open, and…Tim was still in his flannel Batman pajamas.

Crap.

Before him, Dick blinked, finger midway through yet another push on the doorbell. At the sight of Tim, the man’s face lit up, that glittering, genuine smile of his spreading across his features. “Hey, Timmy! Merry Christmas!”

“H-hi, Dick,” Tim managed, flushing at his maybe overeager entrance. “Merry Christmas. Erm…what are you doing here?” And…he could’ve kicked himself for that utterly tactless response…

But Dick just smiled, seemingly uncaring of Tim’s slip (or his choice of clothing). “I don’t mean to interrupt your revelries or anything, just wanted to drop in and say ‘hi’ before I head on up to the Manor and give Alfie his present. Mind if I step in a minute and soak up some warm air? It’s like, negative 100 degrees outside.”

“Uh…yeah. Yeah, sure.” Tim shuffled back, allowing the man to slide past him into the hallway. Inwardly wincing as snow dripped off his boots onto the tile. (Tim could wipe it up later; no one needed to know.)

“So, I left your present in the car because I wasn’t sure you were in, and I…” He trailed off, halfway through unzipping his coat. He frowned. “Timmy, it’s a _meat locker_ in here. How can you stand it?”

Faintly embarrassed, Tim shrugged, ignoring the shiver that chose that moment to rattle down his spine. “I normally turn the heat off overnight to save the energy bill. And besides, my parents won’t be home till tomorrow, so…” He trailed off at the startled look on Dick’s face. “What?”

“Your parents aren’t here?” Dick asked, as if the very idea of it was unthinkable.

“Um…no,” Tim said, blinking back his confusion. “They’re somewhere in Africa on a dig. Because everyone’s on vacation, the business they were trying to wrap up is taking longer than they’d expected.”

“But…it’s _Christmas_.”

Tim shrugged a shoulder, suddenly self-conscious under the imaginary weight of Dick’s wide-eyed stare. “Hasn’t stopped them before.”

And…that might not have been the best thing to say judging from Dick’s horrified expression.

A moment passed. Two.

Before Tim could sort out a reassurance, that horror segued to determination. “Much as I love your current getup,” Dick started, “go get into something warmer, Timmy. We’re going to the Manor.”

“Wait…w-what?” Tim stuttered intelligently.

Dick stalked past him, whipping open the closet door and shuffling through the (formerly tidy) coats within. “I’m betting the red one’s yours…?” Sure enough, he pulled out Tim’s bright red winter jacket, tossing it over his shoulder.

Instinctively, Tim caught it, ogling the young man’s back. “What are you doing?”

“Well, you can’t exactly go out without a coat in this weather, can you?”

“No, I mean…why?”

Dick paused in his digging through the neat rows of shoes, glancing over his shoulder. “Because no one should be alone on Christmas.”

Which…was a nice sentiment, but…

“You really don’t have to,” Tim assured as the man resumed his hunt for Tim’s boots. “I’m okay by myself, promise.”

“Don’t be silly,” Dick called. “Besides, I _want_ to.” Finally, he resurfaced with Tim’s favorite pair of black and yellow boots, setting them down by the doorframe. He stood, staring at Tim expectantly. “Well? You gonna get changed, or do I finally get to see your room?”

Irrational panic bubbled in Tim’s chest. “No, Dick, please, it’s _fine_. _I’m_ fine, you don’t need to—“

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Dick interrupted, holding his hands up in a timeout gesture. Tim clopped his mouth shut. “Calm down, buddy. How about I call Alfred, hm? If he says it’s okay, you’re coming with me.”

“But…” _It’s not Alfred I’m worried about_ , Tim thought morosely. Decided to keep that bit to himself. “But I don’t want to interrupt, or anything.”

“Nonsense,” Dick cut in, waving a dismissive hand. “Trust me, you won’t get in the way of anything, Timmy.”

Easy for Dick to say. Even when he and Bruce were fighting, Bruce always left the Manor door open for whenever Dick decided to come home. Hypothetically speaking, of course, since this was Batman, and Batman would never be stupid enough to leave his door open in _Gotham_ …

Rambling, Tim.

And in the space of time it had taken for all those thoughts to fly through his head, Tim realized Dick had already pulled out his cellphone, hit speed dial, and settled the device against his ear.

Panic shuddered through his insides. “Dick, really, it’s oka—“

“Hey, Alfie,” Dick greeted cheerfully. “Merry Christmas!” Paused for a moment as Alfred presumably responded on the other end. “Just wanted to let you know that I think I’ll be staying over after all. And I’m bringing a guest with me.” Another pause. “Oh, I think you know him. Bit on the small side, devilishly handsome, tends to wear a lot of red.” Dick winked at Tim, eyes twinkling, and Tim’s cheeks flamed with embarrassment.

He quickly ducked his head, breaking (escaping) Dick’s gaze to focus on the fraying toes of his socks.

“Bingo,” Dick confirmed. “Mind giving the Grinch a heads up? Last thing we need is the smoke alarm going off when his brain explodes. Thanks! Seeya in a few.” Hanging up, Dick turned beaming blue eyes toward Tim. “All good! Now throw on some jeans and we’ll get going. Uh huh!” he said, holding his hand up as Tim’s mouth opened in protest. “No arguments. They’re expecting us. And you don’t want to let poor Alfie down, do you?”

Tim stared. “That is _so_ not fair.”

Dick shrugged, smile quirking the corner of his mouth. “So, you gonna get changed…?”

Shaking his head in disbelief, Tim deflated, turning toward the stairs and temporarily ignoring the flicker of fear beside the relief in his chest.

Bruce was _not_ going to like this.

* * *

The car ride, despite that the Waynes lived next door, was still a good three minutes when you counted the security gate and driveway. Add ice, add another two minutes.

Which gave Tim entirely too much time to think.

Why had he let Dick talk him into this? The only way this could end was in disaster. For _everyone_.

Briefly, he imagined Bruce’s disappointed face, borderline grieving as he opened the door to see the replacement of the Robin he actually loved. Followed by the rage. (He wondered whether Bruce would just flat out tell him to leave, or stew for a few minutes and then kick him out. With his boot.)

Thoughts spinning, he started guiltily as Dick’s hand brushed against his shoulder.

“Tim,” Dick said, soft. “Bruce is all bark, no bite, yeah? I promise, he’ll be fine with it.” Then, under his breath; an afterthought: “I’ll _make_ him fine with it.”

Which was not helpful. At all.

Swallowing, Tim turned his attention to the snowy drifts stretching endlessly outside the window, only interrupted by the occasional tree as the car slipped and slid upwards. (Wayne Manor had a seriously long driveway.)

This was Tim’s first Christmas as Robin. It was also the second Christmas since his predecessor’s untimely death. (Tim was very careful to avoid the Manor that first year; which wasn’t hard considering he was still just a kid with a camera at that point.)

But it didn’t matter. Jason had barely been dead a year. That kinda thing always tended to crop up around the holidays. Nothing Dick said would change the fact that Bruce was going to be furious when Tim showed up in place of his actual son.

The car ground to a halt, and Tim jerked his head around to see that all too soon, the formerly distant figure of Wayne Manor was now looming before them, as imposing and massive as ever.

This was a really, _really_ bad idea.

Dick opened the car door, cold air rushing to fill the space he left behind and spilling over Tim’s huddled form, causing him to shiver reflexively.

“Hurry up, Timbo,” Dick urged, scuffing his boots on the plowed driveway to test for ice. “It’s freezing out here. You may be immune, but I’m sure not.”

“You patrolled in scaly underwear for nine winters of your life,” Tim countered, deadpan.

“Skin-colored Batthermals, Timmy. They’re a lifesaver.”

Tim sighed. Dimly noted his breath blowing out in a cloud before his nose.

Sucked in a breath; half out. He could do this. The worst Bruce could do was kick him out.

Right?

Before he could change his mind, Tim pulled the car handle, swinging the door open and practically tripping over his own feet as he launched himself from the car.

Dick smiled, but thankfully didn’t comment.

Tim rounded the front of the vehicle, and together, they shuffled up the walk and ascended the wide front stairs to the oversized front door.

“You ready?” the man questioned.

Before Tim could even think about it, he nodded.

It was all right. Dick said it was okay. Alfred knew they were coming. He couldn’t back out now. Besides, in case things did turn sour, Tim was used to not being wanted. He could take it.

Still, his heart pounded traitorously in his chest as Dick pressed the doorbell.

Maybe he should have kept the Batman pajamas.

Far sooner than Tim would have anticipated, the door opened, revealing the familiar wrinkled face of Alfred Pennyworth.

The butler smiled, stepping back to allow them room to enter. “Master Dick. It has been far too long, young sir.”

“I know, Alfie,” Dick admitted sheepishly, already shrugging off his coat. “I’ll have to do better next year.”

“And Timothy,” Alfred greeted as Tim edged inside on Dick’s heels. “What a pleasant surprise.”

Tim managed a smile, ignoring the tightness in his chest. “Merry Christmas, Alfie.”

“Happy Christmas to you both,” Alfred agreed, accepting their coats and hanging them on the coat stand behind the door. “I have hot chocolate prepared in the kitchen when you have rid yourselves of those dripping boots.” He pointedly eyed the slowly growing puddle at their feet.

“Sorry, Alfie,” they chorused in unison.

“Given the day, I suppose you can be forgiven,” Alfred sighed. Though Tim noted the mischievous twinkle in his eyes as he and Dick hastily kicked off their shoes and stood them by the closet. “Come along, young sirs. Master Bruce should be coming down shortly.”

Ignoring the flutter of panic at the thought, Tim trailed after Dick toward Alfred’s arguably favorite room in the household.

Somehow, it wasn’t until Dick and Tim had settled down at the island bar stools with mugs of hot cocoa clutched in their hands when footsteps echoed from the front hallway and none other than Bruce Wayne strode in through the kitchen doorway. “Alfred, have you seen my…” He trailed off as he caught sight of them. Not openly upset or surprised. Not excited, either.

There was a tense beat of silence.

Predictably, Dick was the one to break it: “Hiya, B.”

“Dick,” Bruce greeted. “Didn’t know you were coming today.”

“I was originally gonna drop in for the cookies,” Dick said lightly. “Didn’t have any other plans, so decided I might as well stick around.”

Piercing cobalt eyes turned toward Tim, and Tim fought back a guilty start.

“Tim,” the man rumbled. And…Bruce’s eyes narrowed, almost imperceptibly. “What are you doing here?”

Heart sinking, Tim opened his mouth, explanations and apologies already forming on his lips when Dick answered instead: “His parents are still in Africa. Apparently, they couldn’t manage to start their dig like, 24 hours _earlier_.”

“It’s not a big deal,” Tim interjected. “It’s not like they meant to be gone. The temple wasn’t found…” He stopped himself from saying ’Thanksgiving,’ because that would _not_ go over well in present company. “Until later in the holiday season, and they left as soon as they could. There was no reason to go before.”

“Is anyone staying with you?” Bruce asked.

“Well…the housekeeper stopped in twice the first week, and then she was on vacation, so…” He trailed off at the _look_ on Dick’s face. Like his best friend had just kicked his dog and he wasn’t quite sure what to do about it.

“I can take care of myself,” Tim protested. When did he lose control of this situation? More importantly, why did he always feel like he had to defend his parents to other people? To defend _himself_? “It’s fine. I’m used to it.”

Both members of the Wayne household stared. A mix of horrified (Dick), pitying (also Dick), and impassive (Bruce).

And…and it wasn’t _fair_. Tim hadn’t been so unsure of what was expected from him since…since… A long time ago.

He almost wished his parents were here, because then at least he’d know what to do, how to act, where to stand, and when to speak. The lines, once drawn, were so _clear_ in the Drake residence.

So why did he always feel like he was drowning under unmet expectations whenever he walked through the Manor door?

Slowly, Bruce’s hand moved toward him. Hesitated. Settled on Tim’s shoulder. And...Tim fought with everything he had not to flinch at the contact; didn’t quite manage to stop himself from shuddering under the man’s grip anyway. Which was stupid ‘cause Bruce would _never_ hurt him, and...

“I’m sorry,” Tim managed. Because he didn’t know what he was doing, he didn’t _deserve_ to be here, with his _idols_ , especially when he couldn’t seem to do anything _right_ , and…

Why did Jason have to die?

“There’s nothing to be sorry about, Tim,” Bruce said, careful as if afraid Tim would bolt. (Which, at this point, was entirely possible.) “It’s not your fault.”

“I know,” Tim said, automatic. Swallowed back the reflexive ‘I’m sorry.’ “It’s all right. Can I just…go home now? Please?” _I don’t want to cause anymore trouble…_

Bruce considered him a moment; almost as if he could see right through him. “If you would like to leave,” he said, slow. Deliberate. “Than I won’t stop you.”

Tim’s heart twanged painfully.

“But if you stay,” Bruce continued. “I won’t stop you either.”

That…was not what Tim expected. He’d expected a brush off, a half-hearted acceptance. What he hadn’t expected was to be given a choice.

…Was this a test? It wouldn’t be the first time…

Except Dick wouldn’t be this cruel. Bruce, maybe, but Dick? No.

There was no way there wasn’t a right answer to this question. And yet, the sincerity in Dick’s eyes, countering Bruce’s usual impassive demeanor, made Tim hesitate.

Really, he should leave. He was the one who’d been uninvited by the actual host. It was only proper that he diffused the situation in the best way possible: By not being a part of it at all.

But then he thought about the empty Drake residence, the echoing silence of the front hall, the frigid rigidity that seemed to strangle the very _air_. And…he _really_ didn’t want to go back there. Didn’t want to be alone, even for one more day.

(Which was selfish. And pathetic.)

Tim had never been one leap headfirst into a fight, or a decision of any kind, really. He always paused, considered his options, weighing the pros and the cons until something balanced out. But sometimes he wished anything he could just turn that side of him off and do what he _wanted_ for once. What felt right at the time, what would leave him with a tingling feeling of satisfaction if only for a moment.

Why couldn’t he have what he wanted? It’s not like his parents would find out, and if Bruce decided he hated him (more) after today, than he’d always have Nightwing to patrol with.

Dick had invited him. That automatically meant Tim was welcome. To an extent.

To what extent? There was always a limit. What if Tim crossed the line dictating the laws of teenage partners by intruding on the civilian side?

Why was this so complicated?!

(Why wouldn’t someone just tell him what to do?)

Tim swallowed thickly. No. Stop thinking. Just say it. Deal with the consequences later. (He was going to regret this.)

With more effort than it should’ve taken, Tim forced himself to meet Bruce’s gaze. Cleared his throat. “I would like to stay, sir. If…if that’s okay.”

Bruce nodded shortly. “All right.” Walked around Tim, accepted the mug of coffee Alfred extended, and shuffled on towards the dining room. “We’ll be needing three places for breakfast, Alfred.”

“Brunch, sir,” Alfred corrected. “An early lunch, rather. It is far too late in the day to be considered ‘morning.’”

Bruce only grunted.

“Bah humbug to you too, _sir_ ,” Alfred called. But the sparkle in his eyes as he turned toward Tim gave him away. “Food shall be ready in only a moment, young sirs.”

Tim…blinked. Not quite able to process what had just happened. That had been…(unexpected? easy?) anticlimactic. For lack of a better word.

Dick clapped him on the back before he had a chance to (over)analyze the situation further. “Come on, Timmy. I need to snag the funnies from the paper before Bruce gets into it, or else I’ll have to wait till he’s done. And he takes _forever_ to get through the feature!”

Tim neglected to mention that Bruce only read that slow when Dick was around for the sole purpose of annoying him (because Bruce really could be such a child when he wanted to be). The brief spark of amusement in the man’s eyes as Dick complained gave it away every time.

Nevertheless, Tim allowed himself to be steered across the room, mug of cocoa clutched in one hand, still a bit stunned by this unexpected turn of events.

Maybe today wouldn’t be quite so disastrous (lonely) after all.

* * *

It began when Dick discovered that Bruce had neglected to decorate the live Christmas tree (that Alfred had chosen and purchased against Bruce’s wishes to begin with). The fully grown man had thus thrown a proper hissy fit, chiding his former guardian as they hauled boxes of decorations down from the attic.

(“Honestly, Bruce, how could you _not_?!“ Dick had exclaimed, coughing from the storm of dust around him as he clawed viciously through antique furniture to get to the tinsel. “It’s Christmas! Get your head out of the sewers and celebrate, man!”

Tim had hid a wince at the stony expression on Bruce’s face. Because _Jason_. Without his Robins around, Bruce clearly hadn’t seen a reason to do anything for the holidays.)

Considering the tree was in the front hall (floor to ceiling) decorating it was no small feat, and ended up occupying most of the afternoon. Namely because of the rounds of lights and tinsel.

Bruce, Dick, Alfred, and Tim all stood on various ladders in that order from top to bottom, passing along strings of decorations and each running them around the tree until they could no longer reach, and then passing the end down to the next person. Tim, being the shortest, didn’t get a ladder at all. He decided it was kind of like running around a prickly, green maypole.

He must have said as such out loud, because Dick called down: “Don’t worry, youngest always puts on the topper. Congrats, Timmy! You’ve been voted up! Literally.”

By the time the tinsel and lights ran out, the tree seemed to have been divided into four sections: The topmost forming military straight lines around the peak; the next slanted as tinsel typically should be, only the angles were rather uneven and lopsided; the third could only be described as perfect; and Tim’s bottom section wasn’t Alfred-worthy, but at least it wasn’t…you know, Bruce’s. Tim may never have decorated a tree before, but he at least knew how it ought to look.

The ornaments turned out to be…a weird mix of gold-filigree and popsicle sticks. That is to say, among the expensive bulbs and baubles one would typically find on a billionaire’s tree, there were quite a few within a single box that could only be described as…hand-crafted. By a child.

Further inspection found a child’s scrawl on some part of each, giving a name and an age. A white piece of card stock outlined in silver, a tiny handprint at its center: Dick, age 9. A stick figure drawing of a dog dressed in a distinctive black cape and cowl: Dick, age 10. A miniature popsicle stick model of Wayne Manor: Dick, age 11. A half-decent watercolor painting of a robin in a tree; Dick, age 12.

Tim found an ornament for every year of Dick’s stay at the Manor up to the age 15.

It wasn’t until he’d picked up a clumsy origami bat at the back when the signature finally changed: Jason, age 12.

Heart freezing in his chest, Tim barely forced his fingers to retain their hold on the (fragile) object. His eyes danced toward the members of the Wayne household, certain they’d noticed, certain he was about to face yet another of Bruce’s angered, grieving stares because Tim just didn’t cut it…

They hadn’t noticed.

Switching his attention back to the handmade ornament, Tim hesitated. Shuffled through the remaining ornaments. To his disappointment (relief), it appeared Jason had only made the one ornament. Tim wasn’t sure why; if the school programs had changed, if Dick had just decided to make ornaments even after the assignments stopped coming, or what. But the only thing in this box leftover from his predecessor was that single folded piece of black construction paper.

Tim licked his lips. Fingered the still crisp edges of the paper; carefully, reverently. With a quick glance to ensure neither of the two men were facing his direction, he eased up to the tree, tucking the lopsided bat on the side of the tree between the wall and the front hall; not readily visible, but definitely there if one was looking for it.

Slinking back to the box, an unidentifiable feeling in his chest, Tim carried the rest of the contents over to Dick. “Look what I found.”

The first Robin glanced over. “What did you…” His eyes widened comically. “Oh! I remember this!” He pulled out the picture of the dog in the cape, practically shoving it in Bruce’s face. “Look, Bruce! Remember Batdog? We still don’t have a Batdog, Bruce, and it’s been what, a decade?”

“If I recall correctly,” Bruce rumbled, “Alfred didn’t want to clean up after another animal.”

Dick pouted. “But I would’ve done it, Bruce.”

The man quirked an eyebrow. “Would you’ve?”

Dick nodded vigorously. “I had an _elephant_ , Bruce. I could handle a dog.”

“So you keep saying. Remember when you managed to catch one of the bats in the Cave and tried to keep it as a pet?”

Dick spluttered. “How was I to know their teeth were _sharp_?! They don’t drink blood, their teeth have no right to be sharp!”

Tim smiled to himself, opening another box as Dick’s high-pitched arguments echoed behind him.

Hours later, all of Dick’s old ornaments (as well as the others) had been hung in prominent places around the front of the tree.

There was only one thing missing.

As if sensing their dilemma, a voice echoed across the hall: “Why, that is a marvelous tree, young masters.” And Alfred stepped into the front hallway, a square, black container about the size of a shoebox clutched in his hands. “I do believe all that remains is the final touch, sirs.” Opening the box, there, on a velvet cushion, rested the ‘final touch.’ “Master Timothy, if you would do the honors.”

The tree topper turned out to be an elegant golden star that looked to be at least a century old.

It was beautiful.

It was delicate.

(Tim was afraid to touch it.)

Nevertheless, one twenty-five foot ladder and a five ten acrobat later, Tim managed to secure it to the treetop without incident.

However, they’d barely stepped back to admire their work (it really was a nice looking tree, despite the lopsided tinsel and hodgepodge of ornaments) when Dick fell to a knee and rummaged through one of the few remaining boxes in the foyer.

“Hey, look!” The man pulled out a tangled lump of thick, bushy garlands. “Staircase next!”

Bruce shot his former ward an incredulous look. “Dick. It’s Christmas. The decorations come down after today.”

“Nuh huh,” Dick countered, yanking the garlands free from their confines. “Since you didn’t put them up right after Thanksgiving like any self-respecting human being, you’ve got to keep these up till at _least_ Valentine’s Day. This is punishment. If even a single piece of glitter is out of place before then, Tim’ll tell me. Right, Timmy?”

“Uh…sure,” Tim agreed, not exactly expecting to be pulled into this; unable to resist Dick’s pleading blue eyes anyway.

The terror of the night said nothing. Merely huffed a breath that was not quite a sigh, shaking his head at the antics of his eldest with the barest hint of fondness in his eyes.

Tim glanced away uncomfortably; pointedly ignored the faint flicker of jealousy (longing) in his chest as father and son sifted through strings of lights behind him.

* * *

“Awesome dinner, Alf,” Dick complimented, grinning around the buttered remains of a dinner roll. “S’always.”

“Yeah,” Tim agreed. “Thanks, Alfred.”

“Why thank you, Master Dick,” the old butler replied. “And you are most welcome, Timothy.”

The decorating, all-in-all, had gone without a hitch. There had been a brief moment where Dick had been seriously considering launching himself off the banister in order to hang ornaments (along with himself) on the chandelier and Alfred had to step in, but other than that.

However, now that that bit of holiday cheer had been covered, it was clear that there was a new aspect of the day that was occupying Dick’s thoughts. A fact that he was hiding rather poorly.

Dick wiped his mouth hastily with a napkin, eyes glittering despite his nonchalant expression. Sure enough, any attempt at ‘casual’ was ruined when he blurted, “Can we open presents now, Alfie?”

“I believe you have to ask the master of the house that question, Master Dick,” Alfred replied.

Wide, blue eyes that reminded Tim strikingly of a puppy turned themselves on Bruce. And…the _fully grown man_ ’s lip stuck out in what could only be described as a _pout_. “Please, Bruce?”

To Tim’s utter surprise, Bruce’s face softened after only a moment. “Fine.”

“Woohoo!” The twenty something man practically launched himself from his chair, cartwheeling out the door toward the living room, still whooping like a mad man. (Or a sugar high elementary schooler.)

“Should I tell him I wasn’t expecting company in order to purchase presents in the first place?” Bruce questioned, flat.

“Luckily, Master Bruce, I took the liberty of purchasing a few items for you,” Alfred said. “Just in case an event such as this occurred.”

At Bruce’s blank look, the elderly butler sighed. “The ones we were discussing a few weeks ago. I assure you, they were all your idea.”

Bruce blinked. Realization dawned in his eyes. “Ah. Yes. Those things. Er…thanks, Alfred. Don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“I shudder to think,” Alfred agreed. “Now I do believe your eldest is growing impatient.”

As if on cue, Dick’s head poked around the doorframe. “Come _on_ , you guys! What’s taking so long?”

A smirk poked at the corners of the Bat’s mouth. “On our way, Dick.”

Within moments, all four had meandered into the living room. A quick glance revealed that the presents Tim had dropped off at the Manor a few days ago had been tucked under the tree along with the others. Oh boy.

As Tim curled in the corner of the couch, he watched curiously as Dick knelt beside the tree, shuffling through the few packages under the base.

“Why aren’t these labeled?” Dick huffed.

“To fend off curious eyes, young sir,” Alfred replied, smiling; smirking, really. “A precaution I am glad I took, judging by current company.”

Dick pouted, shuffling back and flopping unceremoniously on the other end of the couch. “Fiiiiinne. Suck all the fun out of it, why don’tcha.”

“I do believe the tradition is to start with the youngest,” Alfred began, causing an unidentifiable emotion to throb in Tim’s chest.

Seemingly unaware of Tim’s dilemma, Dick bounced toward the tree, pulling something out from under a package and waddling in a crouch across the room.

“This is from both of us,” Dick explained, nodding back at Bruce as he flourished a rather thick manilla envelope before Tim’s nose.

“You didn’t have to get me anything,” Tim said quickly, feeling his cheeks begin to burn.

“Nonsense,” Dick countered. “You’re part of the family now, aren’t you? Of _course_ you’re getting a present.”

Unwilling to face the awkwardness of arguing that point further, Tim focused his attention on the envelope, prying up the ends of the brass fastener and flipping open the flap.

Inside was a folded piece of graphing paper, which Tim slid out in one quick motion. Unfolded, it revealed a concept picture of a beautiful, cherry red modified sports car. Tim gaped. “Whoa. This is…amazing.” Confused, he glanced up at the expectant faces of his elders. “Er…not to be rude, but what’s it for?”

Dick barked a laughed; amused and disbelieving. “For you. Duh. We couldn’t exactly put a car under the tree, could we? Besides, it hasn’t been built yet. Thought we could do it together, ‘cause I’m sure there’s some technical things you’ll want to tweak before anything’s actually put in place.”

The thought made Tim’s heart flutter in excitement. Building his own car? With Dick Grayson? It was like a dream come true.

There was only one tiny problem…

“This is amazing, guys. Truly.” Licked his lips. Unsure. “And not to be ungrateful, because this is _wicked_ , but…I can’t drive yet.”

“Well, we know _that_ ,” Dick scoffed. Then, nonchalant, “Since you won’t be getting your license for a couple more years, I built you a motorbike to tide you over.”

“A _motorbike_?”

A grin broke through Dick’s formerly casual expression. “Look in the envelope.”

Tim practically tore the mustard yellow paper as he fished out its remaining occupant: A glossy photo of the sleekest red motorcycle he’d ever seen, decked out in one of those giant red Christmas bows typically seen in car commercials.

“No way,” he breathed.

“Sweet ride, right? Almost wanted to keep it for myself when I finished it.”

That was when the guilt crept in. Tim swallowed. “I…this is too much, Dick. Thanks, but…I can’t accept this.”

Dick blinked. “Why not? Tim, it’s yours. It’s a gift. That means you keep it, silly.”

“But…” _What did I do to deserve this?_ “I don’t have anything worth nearly as much for you guys.”

Dick barked a (shocked) laugh, leaning over and grasping Tim’s knee; sincere. “Timmy, it doesn’t matter how expensive the gift is. That’s not what giving is all about. It’s about making the recipient happy; not by slapping on a pricey price tag. I’m sure whatever you have for us is beyond awesome.”

The man cocked his head, expression twisted in a tragic pout. “Besides, if you don’t accept it, you’ll hurt my feelings.” Nodded at Bruce. “Him, too. Not that he’ll admit it.”

Tim flushed. “O—okay. Thanks, Dick. Bruce. I…don’t really no what to say.”

Dick grinned, waving his hand and bowing deeply from where he still knelt on the floor. Then, in a half-decent attempt at a posh British accent: “Think nothing of it, young sir. Your gratitude is enough to fill my heart with an abundance of warmth and joy this lovely holiday season.”

Tim flushed even deeper.

“Now,” Dick continued, springing upright. “Who’s next?”

“I believe the next oldest in the house would be you, Master Dick,” Alfred said.

Brightening, Dick hastily sat back down, crossing his legs, back straight. “Awesome! Lay it on me, guys. I can take it.”

“As if he ever forgot,” Bruce muttered, so low only Tim heard him.

Tim couldn’t help but smirk at that as Dick accepted the shimmery blue package Alfred handed to him, along with a smaller box wrapped in candy cane style paper.

“The blue one is from Master Bruce, and the red and white one is from Timothy,” Alfred revealed.

To Tim's surprise (horror), Dick moved to open his first.

With typical Dick enthusiasm, the man tore off the red striped paper, revealing the plastic case of a video game.

Eyes widening, he gasped in delight. ”The new Swordwalkers game?" Dick exclaimed.  "I've been dying to try this!  Thanks, Timmy!"  And before Tim could react, he was enveloped in a crushing, trademark Dick Grayson hug.

Awkward, Tim patted the man's back.  "No problem, Dick. Really.”

Finally (all too soon), Dick pulled away, smiling again before moving to reclaim his other package.

Within moments, the wrapping was torn, the box was opened, and Dick was holding a shiny black toaster with what must have been a thousand different settings in his hands, grinning like a maniac. Eyes twinkling, he glanced up at Bruce. “This is because the last time you visited my apartment you blew up my old one, isn’t it.”

And Bruce, honest to goodness, looked _uncomfortable_. “Yes.”

Dick barked out a laugh. Then another. And then the man was practically rocking back and forth, tears forming in the corners of his eyes as he guffawed to the ceiling. “Your… _face_ , though…” Dick gasped. “Made it _so_ worth…the scorch marks on my ceiling…!” He collapsed back into giggles.

Despite himself, Tim smiled at the thought. So _that’s_ why the entire back corner of Dick’s kitchen was blackened—except for the rectangular white patch on the counter where, presumably, the toaster had once stood.

Eventually, Dick’s laughter died down to the occasional chuckle, the man swiping away the moisture from his eyes. “Seriously, though, Bruce. Thanks. Been meaning to get another one, just been too busy. Read as: Lazy.”

Bruce snorted. _Snorted_. “You’re welcome, Dick.”

Dick grinned cheekily. “Don’t have to be so judgmental, old man. Your turn now!”

Snagging a slightly crooked, long matte black package and an unassuming white envelope from under the tree, Dick dropped them onto Bruce’s lap.

“Do you realize how hard it is to buy a present for the man who has everything?” Dick grouched as Bruce began to tear the wrapping paper off section by section. “Like, I can’t even get away with gift cards because why in the universe would you even need them in the first place?”

The wrapping paper was finally peeled back, revealing a plain white box that Tim recognized as a clothes box.

“So I went with something I _know_ you don’t have,” Dick continued as Bruce pulled the lid back to reveal…

And sure Bruce’s and Dick’s relationship had been getting progressively better over the past few months, but Tim wasn’t sure it was quite ready to handle _this_.

Because what Bruce pulled from the box was an adult onesie. A microfiber, blue and red onesie.

More specifically: A Superman onesie. Complete with underwear and cape.

The silence was broken by Dick’s hastily stifled snicker. “I was going to get it in Batman,” he said, conversationally. Blue eyes wide and innocent as they watched his guardian’s expression fall from disbelieving to cutting. “But they were all sold out.”

The smirk on the first Robin’s face clearly stated that he had purchased exactly what he’d meant to.

“Dick,” Bruce said. Short. Clipped.

“Yes?” All blue-eyed, puppy-wide innocence.

The resulting death glare from the Bat was so sharp, Tim almost winced. Puppy eyes versus Batglare wasn’t exactly a face-off Tim was prepared for; or something he would bet on readily.

A minute passed. Two.

Dick’s lower lip quivered. “You don’t like it?”

And Bruce— _Bruce_ —cracked first, glare softening just a hint. Attempted to save face by segueing to an eye roll. “What do you think, Dick?”

The younger man grinned goofily. “Did you ever think to look _under_ it?”

“Do I want to?”

“I think you do.”

With a huff of breath that was practically a sigh, Bruce shuffled a hand through the tissue paper left behind. Resurfaced with his fingers clutching a slightly larger than average, genuine black leather wallet. The man raised an eyebrow, clearly awaiting Dick’s explanation for this one.

For his part, Dick did not disappoint. “First of all, everyone needs something to carry their cash around in. Keeping a pile in the glove box is stupid, especially since you have like, fifty cars. Second, there’re several hidden sleeves where you can hide collapsible batarangs, gas pills, lock picks, and such. Y’know. Just in case.”

The expression on Bruce’s face was torn between exasperated and impressed. “You couldn’t have opened with this?”

Dick shrugged, unapologetic. “It was worth the ten bucks just to see your face.”

“Is my face really that amusing?”

“Yes. Definitely.”

This time Bruce actually did sigh. “Thank you, Dick. The _wallet_ was very thoughtful.”

“You’re welcome,” Dick replied brightly.

Bruce picked up the envelope from the arm of the chair.

Tim’s gift.

Instantly, Tim's heart leapt into his throat, blood roaring in his ears.  Bruce's gift was riskier than Tim would have liked when he'd first picked it out.  As a matter of fact, the only reason he'd gathered the strength to give it to the man at all was the fact that, at the time, he’d believed he wouldn't be present at its opening.  He thought he'd be safely at home; he’d have dealt with the consequences later, or never at all, depending on Bruce’s reaction.

But now...  For better or worse, he was about to find out exactly what his mentor thought of this potentially triggering gift.

He couldn't look.  Yet Tim couldn't tear his eyes away as Bruce painstakingly pried open the flap, slipping a single piece of photo paper from its confines.

The man froze. Staring at the picture in his hands, emotions flashing through his cobalt eyes too fast for Tim to identify. Settling on something like…pain.

Tim twitched in his seat, ducking his head. Gave his hands a half twist in his lap before catching the tell and squeezing them into fists. “It…it was one of my best shots. I’m sorry, I probably should’ve…told you, or…”

Before he even had a chance to say more (or react), muscular arms wrapped around him, squeezing. Tim flinched instinctively, waiting for those arms to crush him, strangle him, break him.

But they remained exactly as they were. In fact, Tim’s face was pressed into Bruce’s shoulder, the man’s chin buried in Tim’s short hair. This was…a hug.

From Batman.

Woo.

“Thank you, Tim,” Bruce whispered, voice husky with something other than Batman’s familiar growl.

Tim’s brain just about short-circuited at that point.

Slowly, hesitantly, Tim wrapped his arms half around the other man’s torso. Sank a bit into the embrace, just relishing the feeling of being _held_ …

Dick, who had up to this point remained uncharacteristically silent, asked, hushed: “What is it?”

Without hardly shifting his grip on Tim, Bruce flipped the picture out so Dick could see.

Tim had memorized every detail of the scene; didn’t even have to shift to know what Dick was looking at: A perfectly clear, candid image of Bruce and 12-year-old Jason (Batman and Robin) swinging their legs off the edge of a rooftop in Gotham’s industrial area, Jason grinning around the straw of a chocolate milkshake and Batman caught with the world’s smallest smile on his face, one hand on Jason’s (Robin’s) shoulder, the other gripping a burger. Perfectly at ease with each other; perfectly happy, even when they were still within the first month of Jason’s tenure as Robin.

(Tim would give anything for someone to look at him that way. With fondness, with _love_. As if he were actually worth something. As if he were something precious.)

(It was a desire he’d buried deep within himself years ago.)

Out of sight range, Dick inhaled sharply. “Timmy…wow. That’s… _amazing_. You took that yourself?”

“Um…yeah,” Tim confirmed, forcing himself to start breathing again (he’d stopped sometime around the point Batman hugged him). “From the fire escape in the alley across the street. It’s one of my favorites. I almost put it in a frame, but…” _I wasn’t sure how it would be received._

Bruce exhaled, his breath ruffling Tim’s hair. “It’s perfect, Tim.” Pulled away, and Tim shivered as air replaced the points where Bruce’s warmth had touched.

“You’re welcome,” he breathed, dazed as Bruce sank back into his armchair, carefully fingering the picture in his hands like a man in shock.

And Tim’s brain must have gone on a loop or something, because next thing he knew Alfred was holding two plane tickets to London, England, along with tickets to one of the theater productions there, and thanking each of them for their contribution.

Suddenly, Dick Grayson flopped onto the sofa beside Tim, making the seat bounce. Settling back into the cushions, Dick dropped an arm over Tim’s shoulders, reeling him closer; thankfully not saying anything as Tim tensed reflexively against his side. “Well, now that the presents are unwrapped, and no stockings appear to be forthcoming…” He waggled his eyebrows, clearly teasing. “What should we do now?”

The two eldest of the group exchanged a glance. Bruce nodded, and Alfred left the room, returning momentarily with a rather large book in his hand.

Tim watched curiously as Alfred passed Bruce a thick, leather-bound Bible, which opened neatly on a crease in the spine to a carefully bookmarked page maybe two thirds of the way in. Minutely, he heard Dick’s inhale behind him, arms tensing around Tim’s shoulders.

Then, “It’s tradition,” Dick whispered, disbelieving, breath hot and ticklish in Tim’s ear. “Every Christmas, from my circus days. I usually do it alone in my bedroom, I…didn’t think he’d actually _remember_.”

Clearing his throat, Bruce began to read: “Now the birth of Jesus Christ took place in this way….”

No one had read to him since…never, actually. It was…nice. Having people around him that actually noticed he was there, that cared about what he felt. That would invite him to celebrate the holiday with them despite the fact he had no familial connection with either of them…

“She will bear a son, and you shall call his name Jesus, for he will save his people from their sins….”

And Tim really didn’t mean to, but he was so warm and full and _comfortable_ , that by the time Bruce flipped to Luke to continue the story, it was all he could do to keep his eyes open.

As his consciousness fuzzed around the edges, sleep taking over, he felt the soft press of Dick’s lips against his forehead, the whispered, “Merry Christmas, Timmy.” Smiling to himself, Tim allowed himself to be lulled to sleep by the steady rhythm of Dick’s breaths against his side, the soothing cadence of Bruce’s voice in his ears, and a strange warmth (safetycontentment _family_ ) growing inside of his soul.

* * *

By the time Bruce finished the last verse, closing the Bible and placing it on the coffee table, Tim’s breath had softened to the deep, slow cadence of sleep, his body an impossibly tiny ball curled into Dick’s side. A fact Dick was certain the sleeping teen wasn’t aware of.

“He’s so…small,” Dick observed. Unsure what else to say.

Bruce hummed in agreement. “You all were.”

There was a moment of silence, both of them studying the latest addition to their more-dysfunctional-than-average family.

“Sorry for not telling you I was coming until so last minute,” Dick said finally. “Or that I was bringing Tim with me. I really didn’t want to leave him there alone, y’know?” The thought of Tim huddled in some corner, still in his pajamas, in that empty, frozen house on Christmas of all days…Dick shuddered.

What kind of parent left their child home alone for the holidays?

His thoughts were broken as Bruce spoke: “You pretended I was Alfred.” Flat. Emotionless. (Curious.)

If it wasn’t so sad, Dick might have smirked at the incredulity in the man’s tone. As it was, he shrugged. “Tim was so freaked out about the whole concept of even stepping foot on the Manor grounds at this time of year, I told him I’d ask Alfred if it was okay. I think if I’d let slip it was you that picked up instead, the kid would have had a heart attack.”

Bruce grunted. One of those, “I’m not quite sure what to say that, so I’m just gonna sit here and brood,” kinda grunts.

Another moment passed in silence. Then, “The Grinch?” Deadpan as only Bruce Wayne could.

Dick did smirk at that. “Don’t even try to deny it, B. Unless you’d rather be Scrooge...?”

Another grunt.

They passed the next minutes in a companionable quiet, only broken by the sound of Tim's quiet breaths.

“Hey, B?” Dick said eventually, low so as not to wake up the (precious) boy at his side.

“Hm?”

“Thanks.”  Dick gestured with his free hand hand to the black leather bound book on the table.  "I didn't think you'd remember."

The older man shrugged.  Awkward, as he always was when faced with gratitude.  And emotions in general, really.   “Hnn.  Merry Christmas, Dick.”

“Merry Christmas, Bruce.”

Dick leaned down, pressing another kiss just under the hairline of a certain Tim Drake.  If he was awake, Dick was sure he'd quickly be faced with a ripe tomato.  In sleep, the teen merely sighed, cuddling unconsciously closer against Dick's torso.

Dick smiled.  Whispered softly, “Love you, little brother."

And Dick wasn't sure if he had imagined it or not, but as his own eyes drooped closed, the corners of Tim's lips quirked up in the barest hint of a smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **(Verses referenced: Matthew 1:18-25, Luke 1:26-38, ESV)


	2. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cross posted from Fanfiction.net.
> 
> Happy New Year! Bit past a week, but hey, I'm close, right? ;)
> 
> Enjoy :)

This Christmas was shaping up to look a bit more like his childhood Christmases than Tim was comfortable with. Alone in his apartment, perched on the edge of his couch with his hands pressed into his lap, and a small, perfect Christmas tree shedding its little light in the corner, the base of it empty of any and all presents for the indeterminable future.

For nostalgia’s sake, he’d been briefly tempted to switch off the heater as well. Decided that was a little too self-punishing; even for him.

But unlike his childhood Christmases, there was no chance of his parents stumbling in on the 26th, giving a brief, (in)sincere apology as they unpacked; no hope of presents finding themselves under the tree a day too late.

No chance of a rescue from a certain blue-eyed man with a penchant for bird names, either.

(Which was probably for the best, since Tim couldn’t guarantee he wouldn’t punch the man right in the nose…)

(A thought which hurt more than Tim cared to admit; especially to himself.)

He told himself he didn’t mind it. That ever since he’d swung on the bright yellow cape for the first time, he’d been setting himself up for this very moment.

The moment he’d allowed his heart to settle, allowed it to bare itself to those around him, it was crushed by the weight of disappointment. Rejection.

Ever since his parents, he’d been so, so careful. Refused to let himself hope, to let his feelings rest upon anyone because it would always _always_ end in a brush off, a distracted turn away.

It was his mistake. He should’ve known that this new ‘family’ wouldn’t turn out any different than his first.

Tim was no longer Robin. Bruce was no longer trapped in the time stream.

Tim had fulfilled his role in the Wayne residence.

It was time to move on.

Move on…where?

(That was the question of his lifetime, wasn’t it?)

Well. He was 17, after all. An emancipated minor, so he didn’t need Bruce’s permission to do anything now.

It wasn’t too late to send out a few college applications just yet. Sure it would take a few weeks longer for a response considering he wasn’t within any of the first choice deadlines. Plus, it was Christmas, so most colleges were closed until at least January 2nd, usually 3rd.

And yet…college seemed so… _normal_ , after the kind of life he’d lead. Almost… _boring_.

Maybe he could do an accelerated course and complete four years of college in two. Then maybe got to grad school just for the heck of it. Be a lawyer, or something.

Or he could skip straight to grad school… Not like anyone would notice a barely adult wandering around among the mid-twenties students, right?

Then again, there was always online...

Or he could just take over to Drake Industries. That was his inheritance anyway, wasn’t it?

Yeah. Yeah, that was his best bet. Then take a bunch of business trips. (Anything to get out of Gotham.)

He’d have to start with weaning it off of Wayne Enterprises, get it standing on its own two feet again. Make enough money in his own personal account to provide a nice buffer…then disappear. (Only way to ensure this didn’t happen again.)

The door buzzer rang.

Tim…blinked. Ogled the door to his apartment in disbelief.

Okay. That…couldn’t be right. He had to be hearing things.

Contrary to popular belief, history did not repeat itself so exactly on a regular basis. His hopes would not be risen this time.

Had he ordered takeout and forgotten? Did any place even deliver on Christmas?

The buzzer rang again; shrill and insistent.

Takeout. Had to be takeout.

(Or Joker.)

(…)

Tim eased to his feet, half-heartedly running a hand through his hair and brushing any potential lint off his enormous sweatshirt (it was Dick’s, which he kind of hated himself for) to appear somewhat presentable before drawing back the bolt and turning the lock of his apartment door without bothering to check the peephole.

And…two glittering blue eyes twinkled back at him. “Merry Christmas, Timmy!” Dick Grayson crowed.

(Tim should have checked the peephole. Then maybe he could have at least pretended he wasn’t home.)

“Er…Merry Christmas…Dick,” Tim managed, ignoring the flare of excitement beside the pained, twisted feeling in his chest. “What…”— _are you doing here?_ —“What’s up?”

Dick blinked. “I texted you fifteen minutes ago telling you I was coming to pick you up.”

“I…guess I didn’t see it,” Tim admitted. (He’d locked his phone in the closet this morning; which Dick didn’t need to know.)

Despite the flicker of…something in his expression, the man smiled, rolling his eyes. “Ah. I see.”

And Tim couldn’t resist asking, the flutter in his chest at odds with the sinking in his gut: “Um…why did you need to pick me up?”

Dick stared, disbelieving. “We’ve been waiting for you to show up for _forever_. Seriously, Alfred won’t even let us get within three feet of the presents _or_ dinner until you show up, and I can’t take the suspense any longer! Just listen to my stomach!”

Right on cue, the man’s stomach growled.

“So I decided to save you the trouble of driving yourself over.” The ‘And make you completely dependent on me to get home so that you have to stay the night’ and ‘To make sure you actually _came_ ’ was implied. Dick spread his arms dramatically. “Besides, Alfie wanted to make sure you made it home in one piece. So here I am!”

And…Tim tried to hate him. For pretending like nothing’s changed, for still believing they were on the same footing as they’d been before Bruce’s death. As a matter of fact, he _wanted_ to hate him.

He just…couldn’t.

Because it wasn’t Dick’s fault that Tim just wasn’t (ever) enough anymore.

“That’s…nice of you, Dick,” Tim decided on finally. Carefully. “You didn’t have to.”

“Nonsense,” Dick chided. “That’s what big brothers are for.”

Tim managed a tight smile. “Of course.”

Dick’s grin drooped almost imperceptibly. “So…what are you up to today?”

Wow. Tim had forgotten how persistent (oblivious) Dick could be. There was no way he hadn’t figured out that Tim had had zero intentions of going to the Manor today.

(If it wasn’t for that episode with Captain Boomerang, maybe at least Bruce would have been happy to see him… But no. Tim was quitting while he was ahead. He wouldn’t go at all. Save himself the heartache.)

“Just some leftover WE reports,” Tim responded. At least that was true. “Maybe a movie later.” (And some hot chocolate and a good cry.) He pointedly didn’t ask, ‘Why?’ He wasn’t stupid enough to fall for that kind of bait which alway lead to the worst form of persuasion: Guilt tripping. Something Dick knew that Tim was very susceptible to.

“Ah,” Dick said, awkward. “I see.”

A twisted sense of satisfaction coiled in Tim’s gut. _Threw off your plan, didn’t I, “big brother.” Ha._

There was a pause.

As always, Dick spoke first: “Cass is back from China for the rest of the week.”

Tim blinked. “She is?” Surprised.

Unveiled hope lighted Dick’s eyes as he hastily explained, “Yeah. We were surprised, too. She called the Manor this morning telling us that she’d touch down in ten minutes, and if it wouldn’t be too much trouble for us to pick her up.”

“Huh.” Cass hadn’t told Tim she was coming back to Gotham. Just one more thing Tim wasn’t let in on. Then again, neither had the rest of the family from the sounds of it. Still…

“She told me she called you while she was waiting for us to get her,” Dick said, casual.

“Oh. Yeah,” Tim realized, remembering the short seasons greeting his sister had given him a few hours earlier. “She didn’t let anything slip, apparently.”

“Apparently,” Dick agreed. Fondness quirking the corners of his mouth. “She could give Alfred a run for his money in the poker face arena.”

“Yeah.”

“Steph promised to drop in for a couple hours,” Dick pressed, not even trying to hide the wheedling in his voice. He glanced at his watch. “As a matter of fact, she should be there now.”

Before Tim could form a response to that, Dick continued: “Damian’s even sworn an oath to be civil for the _whole day_. To _everyone_. Do you realize how _long_ that took? How many bribes? Speaking of, you wouldn’t happen to know where I could find an original Mongol sword owned by Genghis Khan, would you? I tried eBay, but they’re all replicas…”

“Really, Dick,” Tim interrupted. “Stop beating around the bush and just say it already.”

Hurt flickered across Dick’s features.

Tim told himself he didn’t care. The pained throb in his chest suggested otherwise.

Finally, “Are you planning on coming home today?” Dick blurted.

“I _am_ home,” Tim said. Flat. Refusing to let any telltale emotion leak through.

Dick winced.

“Look, Dick.” And Tim tried so hard to grind down the cutting edge his tone had formed; didn’t quite manage it. “It’s fine. Really, I’d rather be by myself today. So just…go home to your precious demon child, okay?”

Crap. Crap crap crap, that was opening a door to Tim’s carefully concealed problems that he really hadn’t meant anyone else to explore today… Or ever, really.

Opened his mouth, scrambled to cover it up with something a little less self-incriminating. All that came out was: “Go away, _Dick_.”

Great. Now he’d made it worse.

However, instead of anger, Dick’s gaze softened, guilt creeping into the brilliant blue irises. “Timmy. I know this last year has been hard, and I haven’t really been much help with that, but…. You know we still want you around…right?”

Tim resisted the urge to swallow the imaginary lump in his throat. “Yeah. Sure.”

There was a pause. Dick fidgeted; conflicted. Tim stared; impassive.

“Look,” Dick said eventually, soft. “I won’t force you to come with me. You can stay here, if you really want to. But we all miss you, and we’d love it if you would join us. It’s Christmas, Timmy. Family time.

“And I know you might not believe it, but…it really wouldn’t be the same without you.”

“You got on just fine before I came along,” Tim snapped. Done. Just… He just wanted a peaceful (lonely) Christmas to wallow in his own self-pity, was that too much to ask?

Dick’s face fell. (Tim should have felt worse about that than he did.)

“Please come home,” Dick blurted. “I miss you. Bruce misses you, which he would never admit out loud, but…he’s been particularly grumpy today. Even by Batman standards.” Helplessly, Dick spread his hands. “Please. Come home, Timmy. If not for me, than for Bruce’s sake. For Alfred. For Steph. For _Cass_.”

Running a hand through his hair, the familiar exhaustion of the past year etched itself back into Dick’s face, shoulders drooping, breath huffing out in a sigh (sob). “Tim, I…I know you’re upset with me.” (How could Tim be? Dick was right, after all.) “You have every right to be. But I don’t want this to alienate you from us. From Bruce, and the others. And I…I know it’s selfish, but…I don’t want to _lose_ you, too, Tim.”

“I’m not dead, Dick,” Tim pointed out gently.

Dick squeezed his eyes shut; pained. “Neither is Jason.”

Tim resisted a flinch at that comparison.

Dang it. It was happening. The guilt began creeping through his pores, questioning his decision on this matter…for better or worse.

Question of the day: Did he really want to be alone today?

…Tim missed the moment five minutes ago where he was certain of his answer.

Finally, Dick’s eyes opened, lopsided grin spreading beneath sad eyes. “It’s your decision, Tim. Honest. I just wanted you to know that we’ve been waiting. Alfred has a place set out for you and everything.”

“That’s low, Dick.”

Dick shrugged. The smile still didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I try.”

A pause.

Hesitantly, Dick laid a hand on Tim’s shoulder. “Love you, little brother. Even if you don’t think so sometimes.” The man turned, shuffling down the hallway. Called over his shoulder, “I’ll be outside if you change your mind.”

And then he rounded the corner and disappeared. Leaving Tim stewing in indecision.

Tim closed his eyes, slumping against the doorframe. Unwilling to close the door itself just yet.

Pros, cons… So many. There always were.

Tim was so tired of sifting through them all in a harried attempt to find neutral ground.

Would there ever be a moment where Tim could just not think for awhile?

Turning his cheek against the cool surface of the doorframe, his eyes caught the glint of the little Christmas tree wedged in the corner. Pristine. Perfect.

Alone.

...Screw self-pity.

Tim sighed. “Guilt, thy name is Dick.” Grabbed his coat, jammed his feet into his boots, did up the many locks on his door, and sprinted down the hallway.

And as Tim stepped out of his apartment building, catching sight of Dick’s head shooting up behind the wheel of Bruce’s Lamborghini (in _winter_ ; really, Dick?), back straightening, entire expression _glowing_ at the sight of him…Tim couldn’t help the smile prying up the corners of his lips.


End file.
